Under the Olive Tree

20. 'Ishrun

She found Muhsin in the olive garden that day. He wore a brown shirt with sleeves that protected his arms from the sun overhead and pants that fell loosely but tightened slightly just after his ankles. On his head, he wore a black bandana to lift his hair away from his face. She realized that was the first she'd ever seen his features without the hair that normally fell over his forehead. Sweat dotted his skin so he sparkled in the bright sunlight.

He was kneeled down beside a tree that reached Amani's waist, lifting weeds from the soil around it and swiping the blade in his hands over the ones that were too long. The shorter ones he wrapped around his hand and tore from the ground.

Muhsin didn't notice her until she stood above him and lifted the basket in her hand above her head. It was the shadow it drew over him that stirred his focus.

"I thought the doctor told you to rest," she dropped her head to the side curiously. Everyone had known he wouldn't listen. "Did you forget about the bullet that was in your leg two days ago?"

He dropped the weed into the half-filled box beside him and rose, dusting off his pants. "I can hardly feel it. Besides, I needed to check on the garden. Look at all these parasites growing around our trees."

Amani moved her hand to shield her own eyes once she had to look up at him. "Well, your mother sent you food to take with your medications. Take a break and eat."

Muhsin squinted at her in the sunlight. With his hair brushed back, his eyebrows appeared even more sharp and his bone structure more pronounced. He looked the same but entirely different. Amani gulped the dryness in her throat away. He wasn't making her nervous. He was Muhsin—her fiancé—even if he looked even more intimidating and, somehow, more attractive in the bandana that revealed his glistening sweat.

Her gaze lowered to the ground.

"OK, come on," he led her to the horse's stable. Amani stopped at the door as he stepped in, filling a cup of water from the pump near the other door. When he tilted his head back to drink, she pressed her eyes closed. Watching Muhsin be so effortlessly hot must be a sin. "Would you like a drink?" He offered.

Amani shook her head.

He poured the remainder into his palms and sprayed it over the horse's feet. It neighed softly. Amani flinched when she took a step back toward her but swallowed her gasp down.

"She won't hurt you," he gently ran his hands beneath her head.

"But she could. That's what matters," Amani remained in her place by the door even though she had the strongest urge to rush to the outside of the window. Shajar couldn't jump at her through the window. At least then, she'd get a head start in case the horse decided it suddenly wanted to flatten Amani.

Muhsin placed the cup down and rubbed his hands together. She shook them to get rid of the excess cold liquid before running them over the horse's mane. "Everything could hurt you," he murmured. "I could hurt you. You could hurt me. But we are still here, aren't we? We're still trusting one another. You should trust her."

Amani looked at him, still not convinced. "I don't know her."

"You know me and I trust her. Isn't that worth something?"

"You might be the only person she likes."

He smiled at her response but it was a small, nearly unnoticeable lift of his lips. "Maybe," Muhsin whispered, lifting something green to her mouth as Shajar began picking it from his palm.

Amani wondered if he would wash his hands before eating. "How long has she been here?" She asked.

Muhsin thought about it for a moment. "All her life. She... Her mother was my father's horse. She was pregnant with Shajar when he died—he even chose the name—but she didn't make it very long after giving birth. So Shajar here only really knows me, doesn't she?" He directed his words at the animal. "We're the same, aren't we? That's why we understand one another."